Stepping out of the taxi, I trace my fingers along the lush green hedges of our garden that used to tower above me as a child, and hear the familiar creak of the iron gate as I step on to the wonky stone path.
Mum is waiting by the door to meet me as I walk up to the cottage. Before I reach her, she steps forward and pulls me into a bear hug, squashing me against her soft, comfy chest.
She’s shorter than me, and curvier – we don’t look at all alike. I’m blonde and lanky; Mum is small with a big bust and a crop of wispy shoulder-length brown hair, now speckled prettily with grey.
‘It’s so lovely to have you here,’ she mumbles hotly into my neck.
Relief washes over me – followed by tears, which wet my cheeks.
She pulls me away and peers at my face – there’s a faint sprinkling of lines around her blue eyes, more than I remember, but they’re still as vivid as ever. With a pang of guilt, I try to remember the last time I was home.
‘Oh, honestly, Lily – none of that!’ she snaps. ‘Come in and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’
She briskly takes my hand and pulls me inside. I smile weakly.
She’s my best friend, my mum. I can’t imagine trying to sort out my life without her.
As I dump my heavy rucksack on the kitchen table, she places a mug of steaming tea in front of me.
‘There you go – take a sip.’ She nods, and I do as she says.
There’s barely a split second of silence before Mum asks me about Bryan.
I tell her everything – what he said to me, the Snapchats, the way he never works or makes music any more. She doesn’t interrupt, but listens patiently until I’ve finished. I can see her brain working as she takes it all in. She takes a sip from her cup and looks at me.
‘And what do you want to do about it?’ she says.
I look into her eyes; my voice starts to shake.
‘I-I don’t know.’ I gulp, pressing a knuckle hard into my eye.
‘Lily! Don’t do that!’ says Mum, swatting my hand down.
I stop and stare into my milky cup of tea.
‘I just don’t understand what’s happening. We live together – I love our home. I can’t imagine being by myself. I just don’t know what to do.’
I look up. Mum is still watching me.
‘Do you love him?’ she asks.
My eyes widen. Mum never mentions the word ‘love’.
Dad died in a car crash before I was born, so I never saw them together, but I’ve always known Mum loved him. In the photos she showed me of them, they are holding hands and laughing at one another. He was handsome – tall and thin, with a crop of tousled blond hair, which he wore in a long 80s perm.
Mum’s always been strong for me, but there’s something about her that is missing. She’s always been so capable, so independent, but I don’t think it’s through choice. I think she just couldn’t bring herself to love anyone else that much again.
If that’s true love, then what do me and Bryan have?
There’s a pause.
‘I don’t know,’ I say at last. I close my eyes and tears start falling down my cheeks. ‘My head, Mum, it’s thumping.’
‘Well, I bet you’re exhausted. Have you eaten? You need to take better care of yourself, Lily. You’re all thin like you were when you were a teenager. When was the last time you took a break from work? Why don’t you go upstairs and have a lie-down?’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t – have so much to do. I haven’t posted a vlog in weeks, I’ve only got footage of half a day and I’ve got all of next month’s filming to do as I lost my memory card. I’m so, so behind.’
I can feel the pressure of the work piling on top of me, like cinder blocks stacked on my shoulders, weighing me down.
‘Well, how about you go have a shower and then film something quickly now? I can help – we can do an ‘outfit of the afternoon’ if you like.’
I smile at Mum gratefully. She doesn’t exactly understand vlogging, but she understands me.
***
Thirty minutes later, I wrap a fluffy towel round me and pad out of the steamy shower feeling less frazzled.
My eyes are still puffy, but I’ve used an assortment of Mum’s anti-wrinkle creams and chilled teabags. (Mum had shouted up the stairs, ‘They’re the best thing for swollen eyes. Trust me – I’m your mother!’)
My face actually doesn’t look too horrendous now the redness is starting to go down. You almost can’t tell I’ve been crying.
I style my hair into short, messy peaks and add liberal amounts of moisturizer to my dry, blotchy face. Then I dab on a liquid foundation to tone down the redness.
I’m not going to bother with eye make-up, as last week I dyed my eyelashes, and now they look OK without mascara. I’ve paired the look with leggings, big socks and a long baggy jumper. It probably looks like I’m make-up-less and have just tumbled out of bed. If only I looked this polished in the morning, but then no one honestly wakes up looking like this.
I let out a big sigh and hold the camera in front of me. Flicking the record switch, I start counting down. I always edit this bit out. Three – two – one . . .
‘Hello, everyone!’ I beam, smiling hard into the unseeing lens. ‘Guess where I am!’ I whirl round the camera to show my tiny bedroom – the familiar sloping ceiling and wonky wooden beams that my viewers used to love.
‘Shout out to any viewers who’ve been with me since the beginning and recognize this place from my old bedroom-blogging days.’ I smile down at the camera. I instantly have a flashback to the first time I filmed myself here. How odd and unnatural it felt talking into a webcam.
To be honest, I didn’t even realize what I was doing. I thought the internet was a small, secret place just for me and other beauty bloggers. My mum didn’t know about it – my friends didn’t. It was just my own special little community.
My eyes flick to the subscriber count on my laptop, which is open on my YouTube page. I worked so hard to get my first 1,000 followers. But now I have three million. Three million people. Three million faces. A chill descends on my body. I want to drop the camera. Three million people are going to see my fake smile.
I put my hand to my forehead, trying hard not to bite my lip and split the still-sore skin. I don’t have time to moisturize my cracked lips again.
I breathe out steadily. I really don’t want to do this today. But then I hear my mum’s voice in my head: ‘Come on, Lily; pull yourself together. You can do this.’ I squint up at the viewfinder and count down quietly to myself again. Three – two – one . . .
‘If you haven’t guessed, I’m back home in sleepy Suffolk! And having the most amazing day . . .’
CHAPTER 16
Melissa
I’m trying to imagine what Rish’s party tonight will be like. The only experience I have of house parties are those trashy American movies where everyone is thirty but pretending to be eighteen and stands around playing beer pong with plastic red cups. I imagine me being at one of those parties, looking amazing and laughing with everyone, Andy’s arm draped over me.
Anything could happen.
Oh God, I hope I don’t have to play beer pong, whatever that is. I don’t think I’ve thrown a ball since I was a kid.
My phone buzzes in my hand. According to Google Maps, I’m almost there.
Oh God.
I told Mum and Dad that I would be staying over at Suze’s – obviously Mum would have freaked out if she’d known I was going to a random sixth-former’s house party. But it’s fine – I’m going to sneak back into the house later while they’re asleep and say Suze’s mum brought me back home early in the morning. They’ll never know.
An old man is watching me across the road from his car. I glance at him and chew the inside of my cheek. I look dreadful, don’t I? My crop top is probably way too tight. I’m too fat to wear this. I glance down at my tiny black skirt and see my legs wobble as I walk.
I thought black was suppose
d to be slimming?
My phone dings: ‘You have reached your destination.’
When I look up, I can tell immediately which house is Rish’s: it’s this huge old hall with its own detached barn. There’s loud music thumping out of the open gate, and a couple of guys I recognize from lower sixth, Ben and Brett, are standing drinking by the gravel path. They both glance over at me, and one of them keeps looking, tilting his head to one side.
As I approach the gate, I stare at the ground, avoiding their gaze.
‘ISSAAAA!’ a familiar voice bellows out of the barn doors.
Huh, what? Before I have time to blink, I’m engulfed in a big, sweaty hug.
‘You made it!’ shouts Rish, pressing me too tight against him. His sticky arms grip me so hard that I can’t breathe. My breasts unwillingly squash against his chest. His clammy hands snake down my back.
I push him away, my heart beating wildly.
‘Hey.’ My voice comes out as a whisper.
Rish smiles, his face too close, eyes unfocused.
‘I can’t believe you came.’ His cheeks are shining. He sways slightly, wisps of dark hair stuck to his forehead. ‘How you enjoying the p-arty?’
He rests his hand on my waist. It’s warm. I can feel his breath on my cheek. He’s so close I could kiss him. I nibble the inside of my lip. Should I lean in?
Rish has stopped talking for once and is just looking at me. A tingling feeling sweeps across the back of my arms. As our eyes meet, his pupils widen and his face falls open slightly.
I focus on his red eyes and puffy lips. My whole body tenses up. I don’t want this.
My phone buzzes again to tell me I’m here.
I know.
‘Let’s take a picture!’ I say, shoving my phone in his face.
Rish’s hand drops to his side.
‘Er—’
Before he has a chance to answer, I press my shoulder against him and start taking as many photos of us as I can.
One of the guys by the gate shouts something about me to Rish, but I don’t quite hear it.
Rish laughs. ‘Nah, mate – you’re the . . .’ he shouts back, pushing past me and joining them.
I watch Rish go and glance down at the photos.
Oh God, how can I put these on my blog? They’re dreadful. Also, me and Rish don’t look right together – he’s too short. He doesn’t look like a sixth-former. I need to get some photos with taller guys.
I push my way into the barn, not looking where I’m going, swiping through the pictures on my screen. When I look up, my mouth falls open.
The barn is packed. There’s a group of sixth-formers gathered inside: guys talking animatedly in flat caps; girls milling around them in vintage dresses, clunky shoes and denim jackets. Towers of beer on every surface. It looks incredible.
My phone burns in my hand.
Subtly, I hold up my camera to the room. Tapping my keys and pretending I’m texting, I take dozens of photos. Off-hand shots of girls laughing in dungarees, guys clutching beers and clapping each other on the back, the backdrop of the quirky beamed barn – it looks like something out of Lily Depp’s Instagram.
As I’m angling for the best shot, I spot the svelte figure of Louise perched on the side of the armchair. She’s wearing this long floral maxi dress and idly flicking a lighter on and off. She looks like she just stepped off a catwalk. I need to get a picture of us.
Her eyes fall on me.
‘Louise! Fancy a selfie?’ I squeak, twisting the camera round to face us both.
Louise dutifully pulls her face into a perfect pout. After I’ve taken about a hundred, she starts sweeping through the photos with a crease on her forehead, deleting almost every one.
Eventually she hands my phone back, leaving two photos untouched.
Louise arches an eyebrow. ‘Send me those ones later.’
I nod as she gets up and goes to get a drink.
At that moment, I lock eyes with Andy across the room. Oh my God, he’s here. My heart does a weird flippy thing. But then a group of girls push past me and he’s gone. I crane my neck, trying to see where he went.
Damn.
I can’t just follow him, can I? That’s way too obvious. I turn and see a stack of blue WKD bottles on a side table. I take one and push my way through the crowd towards the toilet.
Once I get inside the loo, I bolt the door shut. Oh God, I’m shaking.
I stare at my white, trembling hands.
In the mirror, my cheeks are flushed, and my eyes look wide and wild. Luckily my make-up has stayed put.
OK, OK, calm. I stare down at the WKD in my hand and look at myself again in the mirror.
The problem is I’m too nervous. I’m too sober. I need to be drunk, like everyone else at this party.
I imagine a different me: relaxed, beautiful like Lily – moving seamlessly from group to group, taking amazing photos, Andy hanging on my every word.
With a grim determination, I lift the sickly blue liquid to my lips and gulp it down. It tastes weird – just like pop, but with an extra tanginess. Oh well, at least I can drink it without gagging.
I look down at the half-empty bottle. My heart has stopped going crazy and my fingers aren’t trembling any more. I put the rest of the bottle to my lips.
Oh well – bottoms up.
CHAPTER 17
Lily
Mindy has cc’d me in to five emails about the lipstick launch at the end of the month. There’s been some issue with the packaging supplier and people’s pre-ordered deliveries being delayed.
I sigh and rub my eyes. I quickly type out ‘Yes, this is fine’ on the team’s decision to use more-expensive suppliers. Mindy also wants to have a call to discuss next year’s product line – but I just can’t face it. Not today.
I chew my thumb and look down at the three sample LilyLoves lipsticks I have on my desk. They’re £14.99 each. I wanted the price point to be lower, but my creative team convinced me to go higher, as their market research showed people would pay. I wouldn’t have been able to afford one of these when I was a kid.
Mum bursts through the door at that point with a mug of steaming tea.
She takes one look at my inbox.
‘Honestly, Lily – two thousand, three hundred and eighty-nine emails! Come off that computer right now.’
‘No, Mum, I have to – there’s so much to get through. I’m really, really behind—’
‘You’ve been filming all afternoon – I heard you upstairs. What you need is a break.’
I look at her pleadingly. ‘I will come off. I will – I promise. I just need five minutes to finish off the most urgent emails.’
Mum folds her arms across her vast chest.
‘Fine. I’m going to pop to the shops, but when I get back I want to see you off that computer.’
I smile gratefully. ‘I will. I promise.’
After I’ve replied to as many emails as I can and rearranged my Skype meetings, I click open Facebook. I’ve scheduled tweets in advance for this week, but I haven’t had a chance to publish videos to my public Facebook page, and I still like to do it myself rather than have Siobhan post them.
When I click open Facebook, I can’t find my public page in the top right-hand tab. There’s the usual Tempest page for Bryan’s band, but not LilyLoves.
Huh – what’s going on?
Then I notice something else. There’s a string of names running along the Facebook newsfeed that I don’t recognize. A tiny box flashes green at the bottom right of the screen.
It’s a chat box. When I see the name, my stomach crumples.
Nina MacGill.
Shit. This isn’t my account – it’s Bryan’s. He must have been using my laptop and left it open.
Another message flashes up from Nina.
My heart starts to thud. I should just sign off, but something’s stopping me. I can’t not look.
I click open the chat and see a flurry of messages. There’s a ding, and a reply
from Bryan appears.
He’s typing.
Oh God.
He’s typing replies to her right now.
I feel weird, almost like I’m spying on him. He obviously has no idea he left his Facebook signed in. Should I really be reading this? I get a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach as my eyes unwillingly read the page.
B: you’ve got to be fucking joking – you won pub quiz without me?
N: your music knowledge clearly isn’t up to scratch
B: HA. I don’t need knowledge. I have skill
N: your guitar skills are poor
B: better than yours
N: prove it
B: sure, come over this afternoon
B: me and Jerry are chilling
I sign out of his page. I can’t read any more. My heart is leaping in my chest, and when I look down my fists are trembling.
Clicking back to Facebook, I sign in to my own page. My heart lifts slightly as I see a notification. Maybe it’s from Bryan – maybe he’s sorry.
It’s not – it’s from Chris. He’s added me as a friend and sent a message.
C: Enjoying the T-shirt?
His page has almost nothing on it, apart from his location. Bryan’s page is filled with band pictures, artsy shots of him sipping coffee and travelling around Asia. Chris just has one photo – a grainy picture of him in a helmet, riding his bike alone through the countryside. You can’t even see his face.
With a shaking breath, I type a reply, clicking send before I have a chance to think about what I’m doing.
L: Haha yeah, it’s great. Totally random, but I’m actually home for the next couple of days. Fancy meeting up?
CHAPTER 18
Melissa
The toilet door unbolts with a clang. I can’t see anyone I know.
There’s a throng of bodies in the barn. I feel insufferably warm. As I push through the crowd, my vision blackens at the edges. I blink hard. The whirling lasts for a few seconds, then the spots around my sight gradually recede. I put a hand to my face. My cheeks are red hot.
The empty WKD bottle is cold in my hand.
My [Secret] YouTube Life Page 6